We're at my new location, and I point out to the boys that a narrow floor-to-ceiling bookcase provides a perfect fit for my (virtually) complete works of P.G. Wodehouse, with ancillary biographies and celebrations -- a hundred-plus books, mainly paperback, mainly orange-spined Penguins.
"Aren't you a little obsessed?" Primus comments.
"Not at all, " I lie. "He's my favorite author, and he's taught me more than any other writer about how to write funny."
"You're funny?" he asks, puzzled.